Remember Him, or, Penance
by ThePet
Summary: COMPLETE Usually it is impossible to find something until one stops looking for it. Redemption is no exception...
1. One

Sorry. She said she was sorry. Too often have I heard that word before, so often that the meaning of it is lost upon me. For what, exactly, was she 'sorry'? Sorry for a young life snuffed out before it had a chance to begin? Sorry because that life could have, should have been saved, no matter what the cost? Sorry for the tears she knows I will shed, as soon as she leaves me be - I cannot say 'in peace', for peace is something I have not known for a very long time.  
  
Why should she be sorry? Had the boy lived, he might have become powerful enough to endanger us all, a true threat to everything we hold dear, rather than the overzealous, foolish, misguided brat I had hoped so desperately would do the impossible and choose the harder path. He was zealous, but he was not bright, and he was not strong - not strong enough to fight the will of his twisted father, not bright enough even to desire to fight. He fell into darkness simply because he knew no other way. Ironic that I, the black wraith, the shadow of a man who might have been, should be his only beacon to the Light. A beacon which flickered and failed, inevitably, at the critical moment. There could never be enough Light in my scorched and blackened soul to spill out into another.  
  
On the very day he was born, it was already too late to protect Draco from the dark. His fate was sealed - three paths, three only, were open to the boy: to accept the inevitable, embrace his destiny, and follow his father into Darkness…or to do those things, and return, eventually, to the Light. There was never any question of his refusing the life Lucius chose for him.  
  
The third path, of course, was death…but he would never take that road by choice. Not a Malfoy. Self-important, power-hungry, the ultimate survivor - he who takes and takes, without ever being diminished by giving. Ironic, that he is gone, while they who have given so much remain.  
  
Why is she sorry? She will have her child, her beloved golden boy, safe home once more, his great task completed and his dear heart at ease. She need weep no tears for the evil little brat who brought so much suffering to her fine brave ones. Why should she spare pity for a deceitful and mercurial creature who cared only for himself, his own life, his own power?  
  
Insufferable child…  
  
If she does not weep for him, why must I? In life, he was my burden, in death he is my torment.  
  
I failed him, and my penance is to remember him always.  
  
Draco.  
  
A week old, all huge bright eyes and wide red mouth, screaming his lungs out for his mother, who is not there. Lucius, irritated, shoves the child at me, and I hold him awkwardly, feel the embarrassment slip away as tiny fingers close around mine.  
  
A year old, sitting on my lap, babbling happily away as I gaze into the fire, listening to rain lash against the window pane and wondering what horrors his parents are conjuring up this foul night.  
  
Three years old, sitting on a table in my laboratory, watching with eager eyes as I prepare a bubbling mixture in my cauldron. Taking the ladle excitedly when I offer it, stirring with an enthusiasm I have long since forgotten.  
  
Eight years old, receiving discipline from his father for failing to fully master one of the curses Lucius has insisted I teach the boy, though he is far too young to understand its uses. Biting his lip, determined not to cry, but still a few silver tears slip, mercifully unnoticed, down his cheeks. Coming to me afterwards, burying his pale face in my robes, trembling as I stroke his hair. 'I *will* make father proud of me, I *will*. Some day.' You did, Draco. But you will never know it.  
  
Eleven years old, developing the Malfoy arrogance that is his birthright, being sorted into Slytherin, once more under my care. Sneering at Potter and the other Gryffindors. Emulating his father. Emulating me.  
  
Sixteen years old, at his Initiation, receiving the Mark. Pale face twisted in agony, he is determined not to scream. 'I *will* make father proud of me. I *will*.' Lucius watches, eyes narrowed, judging his son's performance. It is satisfactory. Draco shows no weakness before his father, before the Dark Lord. When they are gone he crumples to the floor, gasping, sobbing. I try to hold him but he pushes me away.  
  
Twenty years old, dying in my arms on a battlefield strewn with the corpses of his kin, his eyes glazed, focussed on nothing. Pale face streaked with sweat, tears, and blood, he turns his sightless eyes to me, small thin fingers closing over mine, whispers, 'Tell father I always loved him.' But Lucius is dead, and soon his son too is lost to me, the grip on my fingers failing, the twisted body falling still. With a trembling hand I close his eyes, and as I do so, a hand falls upon my shoulder.  
  
"I'm sorry." McGonagall says, and for an instant I believe it. Then I turn, see Potter standing behind her, see the look in his once innocent green eyes which means he has killed out of necessity and cannot regret it, and my heart goes cold. She is not truly sorry. My heart alone will grieve for Draco, only my eyes will shed tears over his broken body and his forsaken soul. Only I understand that sacrifices are not made exclusively by the brave and the good. Only I will remember that the blackest soul can feel love as deep and undying as anything a pure heart can experience. We dark ones, we lost ones, do not feel less strongly than the others…we feel more intensely. We suffer more intensely, live and die more intensely than they. And when the end comes, it is our torment which is greatest and most enduring.  
  
The others will heal, and forget, in time, but I…I am doomed to remember always. To remember this. To remember him.  
  
It is my penance, and for it, I am grateful. 


	2. Two

A/N Thanks to all who reviewed this angsty piece - my first, very unusual for me to write grim stuff! I didn't intend to pursue this idea originally, but since people have been so kind as to be complementary about the story, here's another chapter…sniff… ;-;  
  
The battlefield is chaotic, like every other battlefield when the war is finally over. There are bodies everywhere, some of them twisted and blackened, some eerily unmarked, though the life force is equally destroyed. Slowly I move among the dead, the dying, the wounded, desperate to find even one of my children still alive and intact in this place of horror. I cannot imagine that many will have survived - unlike the others, my children were under threat from both sides, from the Dark and from the Light, caught between two powerful opposing forces neither of which truly cared about their fate. My poor lost ones.  
  
Dimly I hear the cries and moans of the injured, and those tending them - a sob of anguish from a familiar voice draws my dazed attention for a moment, and I see Black kneeling over the body of his werewolf, keening something unintelligible. Potter is beside Black, trying to calm him, but it will be a miracle, I muse, if Black's already fragile sanity survives this new bereavement. Potter looks up briefly, his eyes meeting mine for a moment, and then dropping, as though realising there is no help to be found here. Potter and his entourage are not my concern; there are others, plenty of them, to mind the youth and his friends. But I must search for my children, for fear that no one else will.  
  
My search is thus far fruitless - I stumble upon the lifeless body of twelve year old Maria Brockace, one of my second years, forcing myself to gaze for a moment into her empty blue eyes - penance - before gently closing them. I can do nothing for her, and I move on, flitting like a shadow between the cooling corpses littering the once beautiful and peaceful Hogwarts grounds.  
  
I have yet to find what I seek - I do, however, find the Weasley twins. One of them, I know not which, is lying on the ground, covered in blood and convulsing mildly; the other kneels helplessly above him, turning a tear- streaked face to me in mute appeal as I drift past. Barely aware of my own voice I call for help, conjure a stretcher for the wounded man, conjure a blanket to cover him, and leave him and his brother in the care of one of the healers. I move on.  
  
Rain is falling now from a dark grey sky; night is drawing on, the air becoming colder; not much time is left. Those uninjured enough to walk have not been idle - looking around I see no more moving bodies, only still, dead ones, and they very few in number, most having been swiftly spirited away. I move towards the gamekeeper's hut, which is battered but still standing, more or less, reasoning that some sensible child might have taken refuge there. My guess is correct - I find many young ones, cowering in a huddle on the floor. Not one of them older than thirteen or fourteen. They are not alone, however - in a corner crouches Hermione Granger, turning her head anxiously from side to side, trying to locate the source of the sound I make as I enter - her eyes are empty, scorched and blinded by some vicious curse. She is cradling another young woman in her arms - I recognise the youngest Weasley, Ginny. Granger's breathing quickens as I move close to her; to assuage her fears I speak.  
  
"Miss Granger? Miss Granger, do not be afraid. The battle is over. You are safe now."  
  
"Oh, professor…" she sobs, reaching out a dirty, bloody, trembling hand. I take it for a moment in mine. She speaks again.  
  
"Ginny's hurt…we brought the children here to protect them, but part of the wall collapsed. She was trapped…she needs medical attention…"  
  
I gaze down at Ginny Weasley's still form. Her body is broken. Her eyes are open but unseeing. Blood oozes in a chilling trail from the corner of her mouth. No medicine, no magic can save her. Gently I lift the slight body - it is a dead weight.  
  
"I will take her back to the castle. Wait here till I return."  
  
Granger sobs something inarticulate. I carry the poor Weasley girl's body back to the castle in my arms, leave her with Poppy, and return as I promised to the hovel. Granger and the children are there, waiting. The children appear mostly unharmed, though terrified and weeping. Two of them are Slytherins. For the first time in my life I bless the bravery of those headstrong Gryffindors. My children run to me, and I lift them both at once, cradling them as I call to the others.  
  
"Follow me. Stay close." I lead them to the castle, and return once more, for Hermione. Despite her protests that she can walk, I carry her to safety, also.  
  
In the hospital wing, which has been extended as far as possible to accommodate the increasing numbers of wounded, I find Albus, apparently unharmed, but with a dullness in his calm blue eyes which pierces me to the heart, for I know what it means - that in the peaceful days to follow, when all this is really over, there will be fresh grief to be born. I cannot think of that now, and I push the thought away.  
  
"You've done enough, Severus." He says - almost whispers, and I realise again how weak he is, as he grasps my arm as though needing support. "Rest, now."  
  
But I cannot rest - not yet. I have not found my children outside - the only place left to look is here. Gently manoeuvring Albus, who seems to be in shock, to a seat, I scan the hospital wing. Poppy Pomfrey is struggling to maintain professional detachment as she tends to the wounded, some of which will blatantly not recover. On a bed nearby is Hermione, and she is not alone, I am somewhat relieved to observe - her fiancé Ron Weasley is with her, holding her in his arms. He is gently explaining that his sister is dead, while Granger weeps; Weasley does not appear to notice his own tears running down his pale, dirty face. His older brother Bill is also dead, I gather, killed trying to protect his mother and father - successfully, for they are also in the hospital wing, sitting beside the bed of the injured twin (it was George, apparently), who is unconscious but not, I think, dying.  
  
A little further on, I walk right into Black, who is wandering around in a daze. He pauses, drawing back from me, his dark eyes hollow, touching mine briefly before drifting away.  
  
"Snape." He murmurs, almost to himself - perhaps he is cataloguing survivors?  
  
"Black." I reply, coldly. His wandering gaze returns to me.  
  
"All right, are you?" He asks, oddly courteous. I nod sharply.  
  
"And you?"  
  
"I've…been better." A pause. "Remus…he…there was nothing they could do. Thought I ought to tell…have you seen Harry?" His strange calmness is deeply ominous.  
  
"No."  
  
"Oh…all right…" he wanders off, staggering slightly. I continue on my way, searching every inch of the hospital wing.  
  
Not finding what I seek, and realising now that I will never find my children in the way I wish, I make my way slowly through the groaning, weeping, suffering crowd to an innocuous white door. I pause for a moment before opening it - the only place I did not want to find my children is here.  
  
I step inside, nonetheless - penance. It is empty and silent in here; the chaos of the hospital wing seems a million miles away. All I see is peaceful rows of beds, each holding a still, waxlike figure, covered with a white sheet. Before I begin to move among them, I perceive, unexpectedly, that I am not the only one of the living currently disturbing their final rest.  
  
"Filch." Someone must do the job, and it is only to be expected that it would be him. He is moving quietly among the dead, closing their glassy eyes, straightening their broken limbs, covering their masklike faces and stiffening bodies with more white sheets. He weeps as he does this. Looks up as I speak his name.  
  
"Professor. Were you...looking for someone…particular?" His voice is gruffer than normal, but otherwise he speaks as though I have walked into his office asking about students on detention.  
  
"Are you here alone, Filch?" I wonder at such cruelty. Filch is harsh and bitter, not inhuman. Not a monster. There is a difference.  
  
"Hagrid was helping me." He explains, seeming relieved for a few minutes' respite. "Sentimental git couldn't take it…they 'ad to cart him off, give him a potion to calm him down…" Potter's absence was explained, then.  
  
"Where is he?"  
  
"Went to his hut, I think."  
  
I store this information for later use. As for now…I have not yet scrutinised the faces of those lying so still upon their beds. Filch does not object as I lift the covering sheets. The first face is not familiar to me - a middle-aged woman. The second…  
  
…is Draco. For an instant it all becomes too much - I stumble, grabbing the bed for support, Filch moving quickly to my side, holding me up. Penance…  
  
Roughly I thrust the caretaker away from me.  
  
"I'm all right…get back to your work."  
  
He withdraws, eyes remaining locked for a moment on mine, new tears forming in them. Then he returns attention to his tragic duty.  
  
I continue to move among the rows of bodies. They are here, my lost ones, as I had always known, in my heart…I gaze into each of their faces, burning them into my mind. Penance.  
  
The tenth or eleventh sheet I lift reveals the haggard features of Draco's father. As I stare down at him, wondering how it is that I feel nothing at the sight of corpse of someone I once loved and hated with all my soul, memories flit, barely noticed, through my mind, as they did with Draco…Lucius at eleven years old, the first time I met him, confident, self- assured, arrogant as the devil. Thirteen years old, popular, handsome, everything I wasn't. Fifteen - surrounded by admirers of both sexes, sneaking off to Hogsmeade on dates while I stayed at the castle to write his essays for him. In return I received his respect, his protection, and something akin to a twisted form of love - or so I flattered myself. The images flash more and more swiftly, the riffling pages of a photo album - Lucius graduating, a self-satisfied smirk on his face; Lucius screaming not with pain but with ecstasy as the Dark Mark is burned into his arm; Lucius on his wedding day, aloof and beautiful in dress robes of shimmering silver; Lucius murdering the screaming child of a couple who refused to follow the Dark Lord, before her parents' horrified eyes…Lucius, in vibrant, vicious living colour; Lucius, cold, grey, still, dead.  
  
With my heart in my throat I move on.  
  
My next task is to find Potter.  
  
  
  
A/N Please review. Should I continue this, horrible as it is? 


	3. Three

A/N Thanks so much to everyone who reviewed this experimental (for me, I mean!) piece. I'm glad it went down well! This was intended to be a thought-tracking sort of piece rather than a story as such, so I'll continue in that vein…with someone different, just for a change of scene ;- ) This part is told from the viewpoint of Sirius, who has also suffered a painful loss, of course…apologies to Remus fans, I like him enormously and didn't kill him off to be malicious! Let's hope he survives the rest of the canon :-) N.B. Sirius' thoughts may get a little incoherent at times. I *will* be returning to Snape and Harry when this segment catches up chronologically with the previous parts, if that makes sense!  
  
Note to Winged Elf: Archive? I'm flattered! Yes, of course, please do, and thanks for asking!  
  
Thanks once again, hope you all enjoy - if that's the right word for angst! - the present chapter. And again, please review!! I'll write more whether you do or not, but I do love to read your comments!  
  
  
  
III  
  
Something inside me died when I saw him fall. Part of my soul seemed to wither and rot when I knelt beside him, cradling him in my arms - when I saw his lips move and realised he was trying to say my name, but couldn't quite make it before death stole over him like nightfall and his loyal heart stopped beating. The sensation was very strange, coming as it did on top of a sense of relief so pure and sweet it was overwhelming - it was over, all over, the Dark Lord was gone and my Godson was safe at last. Grief, relief, mingling in an unnatural combination…as I held Remus in my arms and helplessly watched him die, it seemed to me that *I* was the one who was dying - that I'd done what I set out to do when I escaped from Azkaban: seen Harry grow into a fine, strong man, seen him defeat darkness and survive, done what I could to help and protect James' son. But I was still alive - the pain told me that - and Remus, Remus who never deserved any kind of suffering, Remus who was the kindest, gentlest, sweetest man I ever knew, was gone. In an eyeblink, a flash of green light, an instant of twisted dark magic, my friend was snatched from me, not allowed even a day to appreciate the knowledge that the war was over, that we had won.  
  
I heard my own voice crying out, felt Harry's hand on my shoulder, heard him murmuring in my ear, but the words meant nothing to me. As my Godson gently drew me close to him I turned to gaze into his face, hoping to find some evidence there that I might be having a nightmare, as had happened so often following the dead years I spent in prison - but he was not looking at me. Following his gaze, I found a pair of black eyes burning into mine - familiar eyes that were simultaneously anguished and passionless. I knew then that I was not the only one to suffer today - that I had never been the only one to suffer…  
  
Sitting now in the hospital wing, alone and feeling confused, surrounded by chaos, I try to remember Remus. Strange…in Azkaban, no good memories could penetrate the misery and doom; since then, only the present and thoughts of the future had kept me alive and sane. I had been driven to…escape. Find Harry. Protect Harry. Fight Voldemort. Fight guilt, fear, anger…for the first time since the lost years, I have time to focus entirely on grief. Sitting here so quietly, lost in thought, I find I can remember horribly little of my life before pain. I can't remember how it felt to laugh, to love, or even live. I think of Remus, lying cold and still. I'll never see that gentle smile again. It hurts to think of him but I must…I owe him that, because he was my friend and because he sacrificed himself for me. I know without being told that the curse which killed him was meant for me. I know what his last words were going to be, if he'd had chance to say them…  
  
"Sirius…it's better this way. Harry needs you much more than he needs me."  
  
But perhaps, for the first…the *only* time in his life, my friend Moony was wrong. What use will I be to my Godson? My poor courageous Harry. He was the only thing keeping me going for so many years…he kept me alive, Remus kept me sane. I don't know how I seem to others…normal, probably. But inside I feel I'm crumbling, falling to bits, and if anything, it'll be Harry who has to take care of *me*. And I won't burden him with that. He's suffered enough. If Remus had lived, he would have been stronger…he would've made sure Harry was all right. Been his friend. Been a sort of father to him, perhaps, in a way I don't think I can ever be, now. I'm too broken. Never be whole again.  
  
A while ago…I don't know how long, memories that were so elusive seem to be tumbling in snatches into my mind, but I can't place or date them…some time ago, anyway, Harry showed me his photo album. The one Hagrid…good old Hagrid. He tried to comfort me, like Harry did just now. He's a good man. Done more good for Harry than I have. Anyway. When Harry showed me those photographs - I can place it now, almost, it was very soon after I'd been cleared by the Ministry - I had to leave the room because I didn't want him to see I was crying. He was so concerned and angry with himself when he thought he'd upset me. Sweet kid. Like his father, always more worried about everyone else than himself. I was angry with myself, too - I should have been happy at being free at last, or at least as free as any of us could be under the dark threat we all face - *faced*, Padfoot, it's over now, it's over - when I talk to myself I always use that name. I think of Padfoot as a sort of separate entity, in a way…it's like having a friend with me constantly, a friend I can never lose. I lost James, and Lily, and Remus, and others…but I'll never lose Padfoot.  
  
I seem to be losing myself, though. In Azkaban it was the thing I feared most. I struggled to hold on to my memories of the good times…as kids at Hogwarts, messing about, doing all the mad stuff we did…I can't remember much of it now. It's slipping away. Perhaps I *did* lose myself in Azkaban and didn't notice it until now because there just hasn't been time for introspection, with one thing and another - those minor everyday annoyances, like the Dark Lord attacking, that sort of thing. Shouldn't make light of such things. But I really think humour can keep you alive in the worst of situations. If the Dementors had a stand-up routine Azkaban would be irrelevant.  
  
My memory is definitely playing me up. Am I nothing but a constellation of memories? There must be more to me. I looked at Harry's pictures and they made me cry for James, my brother - that was how I thought of him, as the brother I should have had. Remus should have been my brother too, but actually, he was more like a *wife* - that was one of the jokes we made, I remember that! He nagged me like a wife, James used to say, keeping me on the straight and narrow, stopping me from going totally wild. But Remus didn't nag, really - he'd just look at me in that way of his, wearing that warm smile, shaking his head,  
  
"You're crazy, Padfoot! Sometimes I think you'll be the death of me."  
  
Oh Moony, I didn't mean to be.  
  
"Your bloody 'pranks' are going to get someone killed one of these days!"  
  
Where did that come from? That wasn't Remus. It was James. He's angry with me over that stupid incident with Remus and the Shrieking Shack. I wasn't trying to *kill* that oily git Snape…just shake him up a little, the arrogant little sod. But I've never seen James so furious, and though I stare him out and pretend I don't care what he thinks, I've never felt more alone or miserable. Three whole days without him, spurning any other offers of friendship. Remus talks to me. He tries to patch up our damaged friendship, but James and I are too proud and stupid to apologise to one another. Remus as always is the diplomat, the voice of reason…more than that, he's forgiving, generous, and loving. I feel ashamed of myself when I realise how much my little joke could have hurt him. That was something that simply never occurred to me, and it should have…I'm sorry, Moony. It's too late now…but I said so at the time, didn't I? Didn't I? If not for you, James and I probably wouldn't have sorted it out. Not quickly, anyway. Sitting alone in the common room, watching you and James and…the other one, I won't sully your memory by saying his name together with yours, however childish that may sound…sitting alone, watching you and James talking. He laughed, but it was forced, trying to make me think he didn't care. You smiled sort of politely, but looked over at me with sadness in your eyes. You knew what a terrible thing it is to be alone. Being without you and James for those three days was the worst pain I'd ever known in my young life. I thought it would be forever. But it wasn't…not yet. We had some good times afterwards, didn't we? You and James and me. Laughing and pranking and Merlin knows what else. Then Lily came along…but we didn't really mind, because she was one of us, in a way. She made James happy.  
  
You and I were together more, Remus, after they got married. We had good times then, too. We got closer. Then all *that* happened…those awful things…I don't want to think about them. Not now.  
  
What am I trying to say? I had a point somewhere. I feel so confused today, my thoughts won't go where I want them to go. Perhaps I'm in shock…but if this is shock, numbness, what will it be like after? Not sure I want to know.  
  
No, don't panic, old friend, I'm not planning on doing away with myself. I was always a bit melodramatic, I know… I can hear you, Moony, laughing to yourself,  
  
"Attention-seeker, more like!"  
  
You're right, I was. A people person, that's me. That *used* to be me. It all sounds so pathetic, doesn't it? Aren't I sorry for myself, eh? Aren't I entitled to be?  
  
I miss you already. That's what I was trying to say…you were always my common sense, Remus. You kept me out of trouble before everything went wrong, and afterwards, you cared for me. You were always there, in the background, steady, safe, sensible, loving…even when I was in Azkaban I felt you were with me. That kept me going as much as anything else. Remus, my rock.  
  
I know you wanted me to look after Harry, but really, he doesn't need taking care of. He's all grown up now, and he has friends - good, true, loyal friends who love him. He's going to be all right. He'll survive, and he'll be strong. I'm not strong anymore, Remus, though I used to be, and many people envied my strength. I'm tired now. But I won't let your sacrifice be in vain, nor will I ignore your last wishes. I'll do my best to be there for Harry, and to hide my own grief, but soon enough he won't need me any more - and when that happens, I'll quietly slip away, and find you, Moony.  
  
I know you'll be waiting. 


	4. Four

A/N Thanks as always for the reviews, and kind comments! This is not an easy story to write, and I welcome the encouragement. Thank you all! In this chapter, we return to Snape's POV.  
  
Two more tasks to complete - two more, and then I can finally rest. I dread it - because when this really *is* over, when I have done all that I can possibly do, I will have to accept all that has happened. Take stock of the situation. Catalogue the dead. Remember them.   
I have not slept for many days, and I stumble as I make my way through the grounds, which are deadly silent now, eerie in the grey twilight, a debris of discarded wands, torn cloaks, shattered glass, and congealing blood.   
As I reach the door of the battered hut, my mind turns of its own accord to Hermione Granger and the youngest Weasley, who so recently sought the protection of this place, inadequate as that had been - but they protected the young ones, among them some of my children, and for that I am grateful. I owe Granger a debt which will be repaid; my debt to Ginny Weasley, as was the case with James Potter, never will be in this life.  
I do not need to knock on the hut's door; as I approach, it opens, and Potter steps out. He appears to have aged during the course of the day - there is a desperate weariness in his emerald eyes, a helplessness in his manner I have never seen before; and a bitterness in the cool gaze he gives me which reminds me, to my tremendous regret, of myself. Some muggle writer, I believe, once said that we become the thing we hate the most. I would not wish that on Potter...or on anyone. It has, I think, always been his secret fear. Perhaps some of his arrogance could be explained in that way - an acceptance of fate, a recognition that one's happiness is but brief and limited, which gives way to a kind of jaded recklessness. I know it well myself. Many times in the last few years I have risked my life, uncaringly, without fear, simply because I have come to understand that whatever death is, it cannot be worse than this.   
Melodramatic, perhaps, but true enough.  
Potter gazes at me, his exhaustion and grief evident in those expressive, no-longer-innocent eyes. A lock of dark hair falls untidily across his forehead and without thinking, I reach out and smooth it back. We are both too drained to react with any surprise to this curious, almost affectionate gesture. I do not know myself what compelled me to do it - only that I feel an intimacy with Potter born of our mutual suffering; and our common enemy, by which I do not mean Voldemort, for he is gone: the enemy now is more elusive, difficult to recognise, far harder to defeat. Potter's new foe has been mine already for decades: it has no simple name, cannot be easily explained to those lucky ones who have never known it, but once it sets in, like a chronic illness, it is almost impossible to destroy. A kind of exhaustion born of sorrow; a lack of engagement with the world - the loss of the basic ability to enjoy and appreciate living. I have sometimes wished this on Potter - merely that he would understand me, and perhaps not judge so harshly, for his hatred of me stings deeper than I would care to admit - but now I regret every cruel thought I have harboured against the youth. He looks...distraught.  
"Is there something I can do for you, Professor?" He asks, in a soft, tired voice. Always so respectful, on the surface - I believe, though, that he really *does* respect me now; wrongly perhaps, seeing courage where in truth there is only desperation; seeing compassion where there is in reality a need for redemption.  
"No." I tell him. My voice sounds gravelly, even to my own ears, the silkiness roughened by exhaustion. "Your godfather is looking for you." I explain, neutrally.   
A touch of surprise breaks through his dissipated air, then a moment of self-anger I can almost feel, as though our physical proximity is projecting his emotions into my mind. The night is coming on, and darkness has pushed us together.  
"Sirius." He murmurs. "I should never have left him alone...but Hagrid...he was upset. There was no one else to take care of him." A pause. Potter gazes for a moment into the night, then, tentatively,  
"Professor...how bad is Sirius?"  
The truth would be damaging at this moment, on top of everything else. I have no desire to spend the next hour or so trying to calm the boy. To be blunt would be counterproductive.  
"He is exhausted and in shock, I believe, but I'm sure he will recover with time."  
Potter nods, but doesn't believe me. Usually I am an excellent liar, the skill being well honed, but tonight I am finding it difficult to organise my thoughts enough even to speak.   
"You will find him in the hospital wing." I add, as Potter seems lost in thought.  
With a last glance at Hagrid's hut, Potter turns towards the school, and we walk slowly back to the building together.   
"I'm sorry about Malfoy." The words come suddenly out of the night. I glance quickly at Potter, but there is little to be seen of him in the gloom. I cannot make out the expression on his face, but his tone tells me he is sincere.  
"It was necessary." I reply, simply, my own words feeling like a betrayal of Draco.   
"I know." Potter agrees readily enough, but there is sadness in his voice. "But...well, I sometimes wonder how he'd have turned out if it hadn't been for Lucius. If he'd been given a chance. I didn't hate him, you know, Professor - I felt sorry for him in the end."  
"Yes." I whisper, disturbed to note that my voice almost breaks on that single word. It is difficult to bear Potter's compassion. He does not understand anything about what Draco suffered as a child...and as a man. He cannot know the complex relationship the boy had with his father, the desperate need to love and be loved which ultimately destroyed him. Potter is right, Draco should have had a chance - and I should have been the one to give it to him. But my own selfish needs...  
I force myself to stop. Now is not the time. Afterward, I can wallow in self-hatred for as long as I wish - tonight, I have a final task to do, the greatest of them, the most difficult.   
I have to face Albus.  
  
Potter and I part company, he to offer what comfort he can to his godfather , I to find the man who should have been *my* father. He is not in the hospital wing, the first place I look; not in his office, the second. He is not in the great hall, where large numbers of survivors, and relatives of survivors and those who did not live, are congregating, seeking comfort in one another. I scan the large room for Albus, decide he is not there, and am about to leave when a man and woman come over to me. They are clearly Muggles, and clearly in a state of mild shock.. The man holds out his hand to me.  
"Professor Snape?"  
"Yes?" Again, my voice sounds strained, hoarse and weak. I do not care.  
"I wanted to thank you..." the man says chokingly, while the woman beside him, presumably his wife, nods vigorously. "You saved my daughter's life..." I merely gaze at him blankly. He seems to realise that I have no idea who he is, and adds quickly, "My name's Granger..."  
"Yes, of course." I murmur - or rather rasp. "I did nothing out of the ordinary, Mr Granger, and further, you should know that your daughter is a remarkable young woman."  
Yet another thought I have never been willing to put into words before. I have always held great respect for Hermione Granger; her intellect and her courage. She reminds me a little of myself in childhood - bookish, occasionally too clever for her own good. My jealousy and her association with Potter always prevented my praising her abilities; not that she needed any encouragement from me, getting plenty of attention from the other teachers. Why now do I feel compelled to express my long-hidden admiration for the girl? Coming on top of my behaviour towards Potter, I can only explain it by thinking that there is something very final about everything I do. Every action, every interaction, every word and gesture, feels like the last. Disconcerting. Perhaps it's shock, but I don't think so. A premonition? A subconsciously made decision?  
"Professor Snape..." The Grangers are looking concerned.   
"My apologies. I was distracted. Have you seen the headmaster?" Find Albus - that is the next task. That is why I'm here.  
"He was here about ten minutes ago." Offers Mrs. Granger. She is a pretty woman, but at this moment her eyes are red and swollen with crying, and her voice trembles.  
"Thank you." I hesitate before sweeping away, and, surprising myself once more, I clasp Mr. Granger's hand again, firmly.  
"Please give my regards to Hermione...and Ron." I mutter, too tired to be embarrassed, feeling confused. The Grangers notice nothing out of the ordinary - after all they don't know me - and their words of gratitude follow me as I leave the hall.  
Where *is* Albus? The corridors are empty and dark. I pause for a moment to think - where else might he have gone? On a whim I check the Gryffindor common room. Albus is not there - but Minerva is.  
She looks up wearily as I enter.   
"Hello, Severus."  
"Minerva."  
"Looking for Albus?" I must look surprised, because she shrugs and offers a half-smile. "So was I. Perhaps he doesn't want to be found."  
"Perhaps not. Nevertheless..."  
"I know." There is something off-putting about the way she looks at me...with something that might be sympathy in her eyes. She speaks gently, as though concerned about my feelings - as though I am fragile. Do I look so vulnerable, so hurt? I find it hard to accept that people who before considered me as nothing but a waspish, miserable old git - or worse - are treating me now with respect, with affection, or, like Minerva, with kid-gloves. She knows how volatile I used to be, but also, I assumed, she realises that the old fire has long since been put out. Life will do that for you.   
"Perhaps Albus wants to be alone for a while." She says again, and with that curious, uncanny skill I seem to have developed of reading people's feelings - a side effect perhaps of interactions between the many curses I have been struck with during the battle - I sense that she is hiding something. She has seen Albus, I half-deduce, half-pick up, and it is not her belief in his desire for solitude which makes her try to put me off finding him. She is concerned about *me* - and this realisation brings a touch of fear. Albus' condition must be worse than I'd thought if Minerva is afraid my seeing him would be damaging to me in my apparently *fragile* state. Her attempt at protection annoys me; I am not a child, and even when I was, I was quite capable of managing my own affairs - and feelings.  
"I doubt it." I tell her, shortly. "He shouldn't be left alone at this time." A pause, while she resigns herself to my determination. Then I ask,  
"Where is he, Minerva?"  
"In the Mirror Room." She says quietly. Her eyes meet mine for a moment; there is concern and warning in them. She does not trust me to be delicate when the need arises.  
"Thank you." I say stiffly, and storm off with an attempt at my usual graceful irritability. Trying to behave normally. It is harder than I expected.  
The Mirror Room. I had hoped it wouldn't come to that.  
  
  
  
A/N Liked it? Hated it? Please review and tell me what you thought! 


	5. Five

A/N Sorry for the delay in updating, folks! Snape's POV again this chapter. Thanks as always for your reviews and encouragement!  
  
I make my way, heavy at heart, to the Mirror Room, distressed to think that Albus' condition has deteriorated so quickly. I know, as does Minerva, that the final battle, the defeat of so fearsome a foe as Voldemort, will be too much for Dumbledore's weakened constitution. He has become increasingly fragile over the last half-decade, his energy, which has spurred all our efforts in times of greatest peril, slowly draining away. Now he has nothing left, no strength, not even the will to be strong.  
And he has gone to the Mirror Room.  
After Potter the Younger's experience with the Mirror of Erised in his first year, Albus had it moved to a disused chamber in the dungeons. Since then it has remained unseen by human eyes - with one or two exceptions. I suspected that Albus himself has gazed into its enchanted and enchanting depths more than once in the last five years, and I myself spent several hours staring into the thing after my re-initiation into Voldemort's dark circle.  
Such lapses are understandable. In times of great stress, we all need hope to cling to. Though I have never really seen anything hopeful in that mirror - all I see is what can never come to pass, and thus I gave up dreaming about it a long time ago.  
I reach the Mirror Room, passing like a ghost through my own office, classroom, and private laboratories. Clever of Albus to place the mirror here, where few of the staff, and certainly no child, would dare to come. In my way I must seem as vicious and dangerous a guard-dog as the fearsome beast Hagrid so incongruously named 'Fluffy; indeed, almost as good a guard-dog as Sirius Black. Albus has trusted me with many things over the years - the Mirror, his beloved pupils, his life, and to an extent the future of the wizarding world. His trust means a great deal to me, and I do not deserve it, but all the same it has never been complete. The real reason I hankered after the Defence Against the Dark Arts job for so many years - aside from my obvious competence in the field - was because to be given the post would represent the ultimate expression of trust on Albus' part. Not just that he had faith in me, but that he had faith in me to have faith in myself.  
It never came about, and this thought disturbs me as I performs the necessary countercharms to open the Mirror Room - will Albus trust me enough to help him now?  
*Can* I help him?  
Can anyone?  
  
Quietly, I open the door. As expected, Albus sits before the Mirror of Erised - the only object in this small, grey, windowless room. His shoulders are hunched, and without looking at his face I know already the devastation, the hopelessness, I will see there.  
Without looking around he addresses me, his voice alarmingly thin and weak.  
"Good evening, Severus. I have been expecting you."  
"I've been trying to find you." I explain, moving slowly towards him, almost carefully, as though afraid he might crumble before my eyes.  
"Well, you *have* found me at last. Come here, if you would." Even in so precarious a state, it is impossible to disobey this man. I stand beside his chair, gaze for a moment into his pale blue eyes when he looks up at me. What I see in them, and in his small, sad smile, is frightening.  
Resignation.  
He has given up, given in, given over to sorrow and grief. I cannot bear to look into his face for very long. Albus has for so many years been my rock, my anchor - and now, in this moment, I am at last adrift in a sea of despair without a ship in sight.  
He turns away, looks back into the Mirror, and asks,   
"What do *you* see, Severus?"  
Obediently I focus my gaze upon the glass. Over the years, I have looked into the Mirror of Erised many times - the first when I was eighteen years old - and every time, I see a variation on the same theme.  
I always see myself - though not myself, because this is a man who never existed; who never got a chance to exist. He is the man I would have, perhaps should have been. He looks like me but is not me. He is always, without exception, smiling; his eyes are bright but tranquil, rather like Dumbledore's once were; he gives the impression of a contented man, someone who can look back on his life with few regrets.  
He is never alone. There is usually a woman with him - no particular individual, clearly his partner or wife. Sometimes - years ago - she bore a resemblance to Lily, James Potter's wife, Harry Potter's mother. Later she looked more like Narcissa Malfoy. Most recently she reminds me of no once so much as Minerva.  
Since around my thirtieth year, the pseudo-Severus and his wife have been accompanied by a child, always a son, though his age varies, and he always resembles Draco. Sometimes he is a baby cradled in my counterpart's arms, sometimes a bright-eyed toddler, sometimes a happy, well-adjusted youth, gazing at his parents with respect and affection. Occasionally there is a girl also - she has appeared a few times only, in the last decade or so, and it gave me a nasty start to recognise the pretty, intelligent face and mass of bushy brown hair as belonging to Hermione Granger. The Mirror shows our deepest desires, those which are kept secret sometimes even from ourselves.  
Today, however, there are only two people reflected in the Mirror. One is the pseudo-Severus, the man who never was; the other is Draco, but he is no longer a child. He is a young man of twenty years, very much as he was in reality, but the figure is a little fuller, the posture more relaxed, the eyes free of the watchful anxiety which characterised the real Draco's expression in his last few years of life.  
"Well?" Albus prompts me. "What do you see?"  
I shrug. "The same."  
He nods, without taking his eyes from the Mirror.  
"What do *you* see, Albus?" I ask after a moment of uncomfortable silence. Eventually he turns to me, still with that same half-smile of weary resignation.  
"Nothing." He sayd, very softly. "I see nothing." He sighs "Perhaps it is - penance." 


	6. Six

A/N This is a shorter chapter, from Harry's POV, for a change. I hope the style of the piece isn't too corny, and that it comes across in character - Harry's voice doesn't come to me as easily as Snape's. Maybe it's the fault of my Slytherin soul ;-)  
  
  
  
Dear Dad,  
  
I couldn't do a lot to comfort Sirius. I feel guilty for leaving him on his own, but he said he'd be okay, and there was no one else to take care of Hagrid. At least *he'll* he all right, in time, but Sirius has suffered so much for so long, I'm worried this'll be the last straw.  
If only I could *do* something - make it better somehow. But even magic can't do that. Nothing can bring Remus back, or undo the years Sirius spent locked away in Azkban. If I could wave my wand and make it all go away...as a kid, living at the Dursley's, before I knew what I was and who my parents really were, I'd dream about that: having a magic wand to change my whole life in an instant. But even though magic *does* exist after all, and it's a wonderful thing, there's still more pain and grief in the world than people can bear. How can that be? If all those muggles who've said, at least once in their lives, 'If only I had a magic wand!' knew the truth -well, they'd have had a lot more patience over the centuries with witches and wizards, that's for sure.  
It's been so long since I wrote to you like this - makes me feel a kid again. Ironic really, since today was the day we lost our childhood forever, as some song once put it. Sounds dramatic but that's how it is. I've thought of myself as an adult for years, but till today I've never really understood what the phrase 'to lose your innocence' means.  
Today I killed someone.  
I killed more than one person, in self-defence, but they were all faceless death-eaters, some of them barely human, some of them having given up their right to be called 'human' through the sick thing they've done. But one of them was different. Yes, he was a death-eater, yes, he did terrible things, and yes, he would've killed me if he'd got the chance - but he was still someone I *knew*. Someone I grew up with! I went to classes with him, duelled with him, argued and fought with him. I *hated* Draco Malfoy, or thought I did; nevertheless, of all the dark wizards who died by my hand today he is the only one I feel really guilty about. The only one I truly regret.  
For someone so young I'm getting a pretty good catalogue of regrets, aren't I? I've failed so many people...Sirius, Malfoy, Ginny...  
Ginny. She's maybe my biggest regret. I'd always thought, rightly or wrongly, that when it was all over we'd - well, get together. It took me a long time to realise just how amazing she was, and yet she was always there, waiting patiently, always brave, always caring. Now it's too late, and that hurts as much as anything I've ever suffered in my life.  
But I'll still move on - I have to. One of the first and best pieces of advice Albu Dumbledore gave me was that we shouldn't get lost in our dreams and forget to live. Thinking about Ginny and what might have been is not an option. There's still so much to do, so many reasons to carry on, and lots of people to help and be strong for - Sirius for a start, and Hermione, and the Weasleys. I've got a chance now to return some of the help they gave me when I was a kid. It's my turn to look after them now.  
Although I won't dwell on thoughts about Ginny and Malfoy, I still feel responsible for them - that somehow I could have prevented their deaths. I owe it to them to remember, to honour those memories. Maybe it's a kind of penance, I don't know - but I do know I'll never forget them, as along as I live.  
I wish you were here, Dad. Everyone says I'm strong, but I don't really know if I can do all the things I've said. I've never needed you and Mom so much as now, not since I was a kid. But that's dwelling on the past again, isn't it, and things that can't even happen. So for now I'll push these thoughts away and concentrate on the people around me, those I can be with, and help.  
Wherever you are, Dad, I know you're watching, and I hope I can make you proud of me, and do as well as you would've done, if you were here.  
I *can* do this. I'm a fighter. I've got my whole life ahead of me and there's nothing standing in the way now. I won't give up. Someday, somehow, everything will turn out all right. I'll be able to have a normal life. I'll be Harry Potter instead of the 'Boy-Who-Lived'.  
Some day. But not today. 


	7. Seven

A/N Back to Snape's POV for this chapter. We're close to winding up now. After this I'm planning to go back to the light-hearted stuff - I have an idea for a Hogwarts murder-mystery featuring a Snape-Hermione crime-solving partnership...;-)  
  
  
  
It strikes me very suddenly, as I leave the Mirror Room, that my tasks are complete. Find my Slytherins, find Potter, find Albus. Done, done, and done. Now what shall I do?  
Someone - possibly several someones - told me that I ought to rest, which seems entirely impossible, especially when I think of Draco in that white room behind the infirmary, resting forever, against his will.  
In my case, the response to any sort of emotional pain - though I pretended years ago that I'd stopped having feelings - is work. What work is there to be done now? There are no classes to teach, no papers to mark, and no dark lords left to kill. Perhaps I should take up bonsai-growing.  
Ah. My sense of humour, like van Helsing's, is asserting itself under dire circumstances.  
Perhaps I should find some vampires to slay.  
Or, alternatively, I could exorcise some demons.  
Thus I make my way to the hospital wing to do just that. Sirius Black, or what's left of him, lurks there somewhere, and he definitely constitutes one of my demons, or perhaps just a little unfinished business, depending on how poetic one is feeling. I have the absurd feeling that he is waiting for me there. Briskly I make my way to Madame Pomfrey's office. Ask her permission to see Black. She stares at me very strangely and kindly enquires after my health. I tell her I'm fine, with no idea of whether this is true or not. I feel as though someone has put me under the Imperious curse - my mind is detached, a bemused observer of my own speech and behaviour, even my own thoughts.   
Very strange.  
Black is not in the hospital wing proper, but in a private room generally reserved for ill staff members. I note that the door is locked using more than one charm. What are they trying to protect Black from? The answer comes easily - for himself. Obviously, the man has lost his mind.  
Perhaps he thinks he's a dog.  
When I enter, however, Black is sitting quietly on the bed, staring hard at the wall with an expression of deepest thoughtfullness on his ravaged face. Studying those tired, drawn features, I remember the handsomeness and confidence I once despised him for, and feel - no satisfaction whatsoever. I know myself to be anhedonic but at least I maintained over the years my ability to appreciate other people's misfortune, especially when it made them as miserable as I was. Whatever else the final battle with Voldemort has done, it has stripped me of even that.  
"Black." It is necessary to attract his attention - he does not even look at me as I hover over him. Slowly his eyes wander up, and he fixes me with a surprisingly penetrating, and rather discomforting, stare.  
"I thought you might turn up." He mutters.  
"Did you really." I drop into the sole chair in the room, a battered, rigid wooden seat which suits me very well.  
"I've been waiting for you." Black tells me, confidentially, a peculiar smile on his lips.  
"Have you, indeed."  
"Do you want me to come with you now?" He asks, his head on one side like a curious puppy.  
"Why would I want to take *you* anywhere?" I feign a sneer.  
"Well, you've come for me, haven't you?" He says, cheerfully enough. "To steal my soul."  
"What?"  
"Well, that's what you do." He tells me, craftily. "You're a dementor, aren't you?"  
This goes on for some time. I eventually convince him that I am not a dementor. I have not come to strip him of what remains of his soul. I have not even come to kill him.  
"Who are you then?" He demands, becoming annoyed. "Tell me your name."  
"I am Severus Snape." I oblige. He peers at me closely for a moment, as though wanting to verify this statement. Then to my surprise he chuckles.  
"No, you're *not*." He laughs, shaking his head. "I know Snape and you're definitely not him."  
I give up. Maybe Black is right. Maybe I'm not him. If not, who am I? Feeling very confused, I take my leave of Potter's mongrel, and as I depart, I walk directly into the youth himself, coming to visit his godfather.  
"I'm sorry, professor." Potter exclaims, disentangling himself from me. Then he realises the incongruity of the situation.  
"Is something wrong with Sirius?" He asks, anxiously. I shake my head.  
"Not as far as I can see." I tell him dryly. Potter squints at me.  
"Are *you*, okay, professor?"  
What an interesting question, and so apt that Potter should ask it. In all the years he despised me, judged me, and thought me nothing more than a sneering, heartless git, he never once thought to ask that simple question, 'are you okay?'   
"I have absolutely no idea." I tell him, genially enough, and he clearly thinks I've been drinking suspect potions, because his eyes widen and the inevitable words issue from his lips,  
"Maybe you should get some rest."  
"When I die." I tell him, and walk off, leaving the young man staring incredulously after me. Without looking back I see him shrug and enter Black's room - I am far from Potter's first priority, and if as it seems I've gone completely mad, it is someone's else's problem.  
I wander back to my office, more relaxed than I have been for a long, long time. Waiting for me there is Minerva, her expression a mixture of severity and concern.  
"I've just been speaking to Harry." She says, in a dangerous voice. "Oh, for heaven's sake!" She adds in exasperation, and suddenly grabs me. I realise for the first time that I'm swaying on my feet. She puts me in a chair, draws up another, and sits close, her knees pressing against mine. She looks ragged with exhaustion. Her voice is raspy.  
"Severus, this is not the answer."  
Apparently it's quite obvious even to a casual observer that, following my talk with Albus, I drank a selection from the cabinet in my laboratory - items I save for special occasions such as this. I remember vaguely that my intention was to keep myself awake. It seems that complete exhaustion and high dosages of stimulant potion do not mix. I was running on adrenaline; now I am conscious only by virtue of artifice. No wonder the world seems so odd suddenly.   
Minerva is looking at me sadly.  
"I'm sorry." She says softly. "I thought at first you were drunk. It's just weariness, isn't it? You must go to bed."  
"'To sleep, perchance to dream.'" I reply, the words summarising my situation excellently. Penance. How much more of it am I expected to do?  
"Take a potion." She suggests.  
"Doesn't work anymore." I counter.   
Minerva sighs.  
"All right." I finally concede.   
She looks up. "What do you mean?"  
"All right, I'll go to bed." I elucidate, falsely. She is too tired herself to notice.  
"Good."   
"As long as you do the same."   
Hesitation; Minerva feels the weight of the world on her shoulders and is afraid to lose time.  
"Very well."   
She does not leave immediately, however, but foils my plan of drinking myself into a stupor by insisting on helping me undress and tucking me into bed as she might a child. Once she has gone, however, I am simply too weary to get up again....so I remain still and quiet, too exhausted, thankfully, even to think, until blissful sleep overcomes me...  
  
  
I wake to the sound of squeaking, a far from musical noise. As I make my groggy approach to full wakefulness the squeaking takes on a kind of meaning, resolving itself gradually into understandable words. For a moment I am confused; then, I spot a small, timid, bat-eared creature, wearing the most ridiculous bonnet, lurking at the edge of my bed. A house-elf. Winky the house-elf, to be precise. Self-styled rehabilitator of dark wizards. Doubtless McGonagall has sent this unwanted gift.  
The squeaking continues. With difficulty I follow the small being's rapid, ungrammatical speech.   
"Professor Snape would like a cup of tea?" She quavers, staring directly into my eyes by means of standing on tiptoe - I am, after all, lying down. Prone. I dislike appearing so vulnerable.  
"No, professor Snape would not like a cup of tea. Professor Snape would like to know what time it is, and then he wants you to go away so that he can dress in peace." Is not referring to oneself in the third person a symptom of some dire mental disorder? The elf does not appear to mind.  
"Nine o'clock, sir." She says.  
"Is that morning or evening?" I demand, unembarrassed.  
"Morning, sir."  
Strange. I have only slept for five or six hours, then, but I feel quite rested, physically, at least.   
"You is wanting tea, sir?"  
"Eh? No, no, go away."  
"I is wanting to serve you, sir."  
"That's all very well, but I don't require a valet just at the moment. Now if you don't mind, I'd like to..." sitting up, I see that my clothes are folded neatly on a chair beside the bed, my wand placed tidily on the bedside table, and the room generally cleaner. In fact, I can see the floor. How dare this elf do such a heinous thing as *tidy* my private chamber? But I have far more important things to worry about.  
"Has anything happened?" I demand of Winky, not sure what I expect to hear.  
"Oh yes, sir." She says, alarmingly.   
"Well?" I snap, leaping out of bed and exchanging my nightshirt rapidly for robes.  
"Professor Dumbledore has called a meeting, sir. In the Great Hall, sir. At ten o'clock, sir. Everyone is attending, sir."  
"Meeting? Already?" Too early, my mind exclaims. Only a few weary hours after the final battle and Albus is called meetings? But at least this means he is strong enough to remain in control.  
"The Ministry is coming, sir." Winky adds, handing me my wand. I slip it into its pocket.  
"It's too early." I mutter.  
"Professor Snape would like to go back to bed?"  
"What? No, that wasn't what I meant, you stupid elf. I mean calling a meeting immediately after the battle is too soon. Hogwarts is in chaos..."  
"No, sir." I am astonished by the elf's effrontery, for, emancipated or not, a house-elf is a house-elf is a house-elf, and a house-elf is respectful of its betters.  
"What do you mean by that? Of course it is! Has so much happened in the few hours I've been asleep?"  
"Thirty hours, sir."  
I freeze in the process of lacing my boots.  
"What?" I say once more, stupidly.  
"Professor Snape has been sleeping for thirty hours. Winky has been here all the time, sir, in case you was wanting anything, sir."  
"Thirty..." Thoroughly alarmed now, I use my wand to finish dressing and bolt for the Great Hall, knocking Winky over as I plunge past her. She doesn't appear to mind.  
  
Albus is in the Great Hall already, alone at the staff table, looking thoughtful, his head bowed. He glances up as I burst in.  
"Good morning, Severus. Slept well?"  
"Rather too well." I mutter, embarrassed and somewhat ashamed of myself.  
"Now, now, no-one will blame you for getting the rest you need and deserve. You have been informed about the meeting? Really more of a debriefing."  
"Yes, yes, I have. Is there anything I can do?"  
"Not at all. You have done more than enough...more than enough." I had hoped, foolishly perhaps, to find that the light had returned to Dumbledore's blue eyes, but I am disappointed. He looks wearier and older than ever before; his voice is weak, his movements slow, his forehead deeply lined.  
"Perhaps you would like some breakfast?" A gentle smile. "There's plenty of time. You are rather...early."  
"No, thank you." I could not possibly eat anything, though it has now been three days since I had more than a biscuit. "A glass of water wouldn't go amiss." I amend, and a large jug of icy water is duly brought - by Winky.  
"Thank you." I murmur guardedly. I don't want or need my own personal house-elf, but it seems that Winky wishes to devote herself to my cause. She is gazing at me with almost motherly concern out of her huge eyes. "Go away." I tell her, and she vanishes obediently. At last, someone I can freely treat rudely without offence being taken and vengeance extracted.  
"It would appear you are not the only person to arrive early, Severus." Glancing up I spot two young men coming towards us. They are familiar, and it takes me only a moment to place them both: Seamus Finnigan and Dean Thomas, both sometime Gryffindors, both great contributors to the war against Voldemort. Though close friends for many years their paths diverged considerably, however - Finnigan working for the Ministry, I seem to recall, Thomas becoming an artist. A very good one; his name is well known in both artistic circles and among the public. He has painted both muggle and normal pictures, though of course it is the latter which takes the most skill. A wizard artist must have the unique capacity of looking at a person and seeing, effectively, into their soul - assessing their personality, understanding the core of their being. He must then copy this onto canvas, for without a splinter of the subject's essence, as it were, the picture cannot come to 'life'. A failed wizard portrait resembles a muggle painting, and often it is sold as such, scorned by other wizard artists. Dean Thomas has never produced a failed painting; he has an innate skill.  
Finnigan and Thomas greet Dumbledore enthusiastically. Finnigan nods coolly to me, but Thomas stares at me rather strangely.  
"Professor Snape?" He says, uncertainly, as though there were some possibility that he might be mistaken.  
"Mr. Thomas." I reply. A bemused smile comes to his lips.  
"You look...different, professor."  
I raise an eyebrow. "Different?"  
He nods, frowns as though struggling to determine the nature of that difference. He nibbles his lip, shakes his head, then shrugs. "I'll get it." He tells me.  
  
  
Indeed he does. Following the meeting, Dean Thomas asks to paint my picture, to my utter confusion. Surely this is not the time to play some unpleasant practical joke? Curious, I agree, and Thomas works quickly. By the end of his brief stay at Hogwarts in the aftermath of the battle, the portrait is complete, and he presents it to me in my chamber, in the presence of Albus, Minerva, and Winky, who refuses to leave my side.  
"What do you think?" Asks Thomas, unveiling the painting.  
I cast my eyes over it. Draw back in amazement. Study it again.  
A wizard painting is so effective because it essentially captures the very nature, the very soul, of its subject.  
The man in the picture I am staring at looks like me. The image is so cleverly produced that it is like looking into a mirror.   
Nevertheless, the man in the picture is not me, surely cannot be me.   
He looks contented, like a man who has few regrets - or a man who has redeemed himself of them.  
His eyes are bright with intellect, but tranquil, rather like Dumbledore's used to be.  
And oddest of all...  
He is smiling. 


	8. Epilogue

Epilogue  
  
"I should say a feast is quite appropriate." Professor Snape agreed, in response to Headmistress Minerva McGonagall's suggestion that something should be done to mark the year's anniversary of Voldemort's final defeat.  
"A feast it is, then. Albus would have approved." McGonagall mused, a wistful smile on her face.  
"Don't even think it." Snape growled. "Leave Albus alone. He has earned his retirement."  
"Do you think we'll ever hear from him again?"  
Snape shrugged. "Possibly. Who knows?" But Snape knew, in his heart, that none of them would see Dumbledore again. The greatest headmaster Hogwarts had ever known, the world's finest wizard, had vanished completely, slipping away quietly as he had wanted, without fuss or bother. No one knew precisely what had happened to him, but Snape suspected. What he suspected, however, he had no intention of telling anyone, not even McGonagall. While Albus was thought to be alive, he was an icon, a beacon to wizards and witches of all ages everywhere. A mystery and an inspiration. Long may that continue, Snape thought.  
"I'll make the arrangements, then, shall I?" Changing the subject.  
"If you would, Severus. Now if you'll excuse me, I have a meeting with the new Minister of Magic..."  
"Indeed. Give Weasley my regards."  
"Certainly." Minerva departed the staff room with a swish of robes, and Snape headed to his own office; or rather one of them, since he was entitled in his position as deputy headmaster to a large, comfortable, airy tower room. Not that he wasn't fond of that office, with its enormous walnut desk and oak panelled walls, on one of which hung a large smiling portrait of Snape himself, rather valuable since it was a personally presented gift from one of the wizarding world's finest artists, Dean Thomas. As charming as the room was, however, Snape spent most of his time in the cold, dank, slimy dungeon chamber he had called home for many years, the traditional location, after all, for the office of the head of Slytherin House. It said nowhere in the rule book that deputy headmasters had to be impartial. Besides, his laboratory was down here, as was the potions classroom; when it had come to it, Snape had found it impossible to give up teaching potions. However, Dumbledore's last act as headmaster had been to offer Snape the Defence Against the Dark Arts position which he had so long coveted. The solution, given the difficulty of finding anyone to accept either the DADA position, rumoured to be cursed, or the potions position, for fear of being poisoned by Snape, was for Snape to teach advanced classes in both, which kept him immensely busy, a useful thing in itself. Busy minds do not dwell on the past. The junior DADA and potions classes were taught by a very capable new teacher and researcher - Hermione Granger. Though Snape was far from the sort of colleague one invited round for tea - especially when one was married to Ron Weasley - Hermione respected Snape and he returned that respect. They made a rather effective academic partnership and had already published several papers together. Snape had insisted, though most of the work had been his, that Hermione's name appeared first on the articles, as senior author.  
Yes, Snape was overworked, which gave him an excuse for irascibility, pleasing him greatly. Another good excuse for bursts of bad temper was the tendency of the pupils to spread malicious tattle to the effect that the headmistress and deputy headmaster were 'carrying on'. Snape and McGonagall responded to any such accusations with a flurry of detentions and house points taken; none of the miscreants, however, were sharp enough to notice that neither of the professors ever actually denied the rumours, which had begun with an innocent remark made in the kitchens by Snape's personal house-elf, Winky.  
Also allowing Snape to easily maintain his reputation as a miserable old git were the perpetual visits of one Harry Potter and the continuing presence of one Sirius Black. Potter turned up regularly at Quidditch matches, giving the young players a thrill to see one of the celebrities of the sporting world. Sometimes the infuriating show-off even played himself. Sometimes Potter refereed, sometimes he commentated, sometimes he just sat in the stands, but whichever form of interference he chose, he was always rooting for Gryffindor, the biased devil. Black, too, tended to turn up wearing Gryffindor colours and smirking. He had an excuse, however, being Transfiguration professor, and the head of Gryffindor House. Potter's idea, naturally. Potter still had everyone at Hogwarts twisted round his finger, except Snape, of course. Not that Black didn't know his stuff, but really, teachers turning into animals everywhere struck Snape as rather undignified, especially when they had a tendency to chase Mrs. Norris through the castle corridors.  
With one thing and another, Snape had every excuse for being bad tempered, and pupils from the first year to the last had every reason to hold him in great respect. Young Slytherins admired and emulated him; the others houses either hated him or were terrified of him or both; some things never change. Or did they? Snape had overheard one young Gryffindor talking to an exchange student from Beauxbatons:   
"Scary, isn't he? He knows more about the Dark Arts than any other wizard in England."  
"And he poisons one of us every term just to make sure we're paying attention to the lessons on antidotes." A Hufflepuff chimed in. Their voices were tinged with something like pride. Snape was still a git, but he was *their* git, unquestionably, unwaveringly on their side, as fearsome a guardian as anyone could desire. No matter whether the pupils admired, hated, or feared him, there was not a single one of them, of any house, who did not respect him and feel safer for his sinister presence at Hogwarts.   
The war had done that for him. Death for many, defeat for some, victory for others - and redemption for Severus Snape, in the eyes of his colleagues and his students. In one single day the past had ceased to matter, and the future, for the first time in years, became important. Snape was determined to live his life as fully as he possibly could, refusing to allow the sacrifice of the many who had died for the sake of freedom to be in vain. It was a philosophy he shared with Harry Potter and Sirius Black, though none of them expressed it aloud. It was redemption. It was freedom. It was salvation.  
It was penance.  
  
  
  
A/N I'd like to thank every one of you for reviewing and encouraging me! This has been a depressing piece to write, especially under circumstances I won't go into (but they explain, perhaps, the lighter note of the ending).  
Also, I promised ages ago a Severus/Minerva angst piece. This obviously isn't it, but I'm thinking about making that piece a continuation of this timeline/universe. I'd welcome thoughts and advice on that - do you like this view of the future, and would anyone like to see more of it from a Snape/McG angle?   
Thanks once again to all you lovely readers, especially Helena who encourages me constantly both online and in person :-) 


End file.
